Croquet is a pretty game out of doors, and chess is delightful in a drawing-room.  Battledore and shuttlecock and hunt-the-slipper have also their attractions.  Proverbs are good, and cross questions with crooked answers may be made very amusing.  But none of these games are equal to the game of love-making—­providing that the players can be quite sure that there shall be no heart in the matter.  Any touch of heart not only destroys the pleasure of the game, but makes the player awkward and incapable and robs him of his skill.  And thus it is that there are many people who cannot play the game at all.  A deficiency of some needed internal physical strength prevents the owners of the heart from keeping a proper control over its valves, and thus emotion sets in, and the pulses are accelerated, and feeling supervenes.  For such a one to attempt the game of love-making, is as though your friend with the gout should insist on playing croquet.  A sense of the ridiculous, if nothing else, should in either case deter the afflicted one from the attempt.  There was no such absurdity with our friend Mrs Dobbs Broughton and Conway Dalrymple.  Their valves and pulses were all right.  They could play the game without the slightest danger of any inconvenient result;—­of any inconvenient result, that is, as regarded their own feelings.  Blind people cannot see and stupid people cannot understand—­and it might be that Mr Dobbs Broughton, being both blind and stupid in such matters, might perceive something of the playing of the game and not know that it was only a game of skill.

When I say that as regarded these two lovers there was nothing of love between them, and that the game was therefore so far innocent, I would not be understood as asserting that these people had no hearts in their bosoms.  Mrs Dobbs Broughton probably loved her husband in a sensible, humdrum way, feeling him to be a bore, knowing him to be vulgar, aware that he often took a good deal more wine than was good for him, and that he was almost as uneducated as a hog.  Yet she loved him, and showed her love by taking care that he should have things for dinner which he liked to eat.  But in this alone there were to be found none of the charms of a fevered existence, and therefore, Mrs Dobbs Broughton, requiring those charms for her comfort, played her little game with Conway Dalrymple.  And as regarded the artist himself let no reader presume him to have been heartless because he flirted with Mrs Dobbs Broughton.  Doubtless he will marry some day, and will have a large family for which he will work hard, and will make a good husband to some stout lady who will be careful in looking after his linen.  But on the present occasion he fell into some slight trouble in spite of the innocence of his game.  As he quitted his friend’s room he heard the hall-door slammed heavily; then there was a quick step on the stairs, and on the landing-place above the first flight he met the master of the house, somewhat flurried, as it seemed, and not looking comfortable, either as regarded his person or his temper.  ‘By George, he’s been drinking!’ Conway said to himself, after the first glance.  Now it certainly was the case that Dobbs Broughton would sometimes drink at improper hours.